


Parliament

by Daegaer



Series: Better to Reign [5]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Demons, Fallen Angels, Friendship, Hell, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-30 05:15:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20809130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer
Summary: Hastur attends Hell's Parliament.





	Parliament

Hastur readies himself, surrounded now by beings of flame and molten steel. They flow down to the floor and kiss the steaming iron before his feet, then stand, solidifying into the forms of armed and armoured angels. He strides from the room, utterly unheeding of their presence at his back. They followed him here from Heaven, and their lives are bound to his. If attack comes, it will not be from these members of the Fallen.

Near the Palace he sees Ligur, approaching with his own guards. They nod distantly at each other and walk on together. Once, Hastur thinks, he would have laughed, thrown an arm about Ligur's shoulders. Such behavior is not seen in Hell, where past friends are pulled close only to make it easier to drive in the knife. One carries out duties grimly and completely, not with joy. Friendship is weakness, not something that increases the perfection of bliss. About them their guards clear the way, beating back the Fallen of lesser status, crying out to make way for members of the Infernal nobility.

They take their place in the Great Chamber, looking down at the place where the Speaker's throne stands. Only one Voice ever addresses the gathering of all Hell, for all this is dubbed a Parliament. Briefly, so fleetingly that it might be a fantasy, Hastur feels Ligur's hand touch his as they stand in the galleries. It might be in error, it might be because others jostle about them to find places of their own. It clearly means nothing.

Hastur remembers cold skies of palest light, the feel of a friend's cool flesh clasped in his own hand. Ligur's strong, slender hand, equally designed for holding a sword or being raised up in praise. He fixes his eyes on Ligur's hand as it is now, clawed fingers idly gouging channels in the rail before them. As he watches, he sees the claws scratch his own name into the stone as Ligur yawns and looks out over the crowd. Ligur's fingers stroke over the sigil, slowly and gently. The next stroke of claws obliterates it, removing all proof of sentiment.

Hastur watches the demons assemble and smiles. If latecomers pouring in force him and Ligur close together that can be attributed only to random movement, not design.

Their guards form up protectively, snarling at those who might stare long enough to disagree.


End file.
